


Doctor Who - Colepaldi RPF - See me

by Colepaldi-in-the-Tardis (Samstown4077)



Series: Colepaldi Collection [33]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Angst, Depressiv, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Hidden Feelings, One Shot, RPF, Suppressed Feelings, tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Colepaldi-in-the-Tardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one has feelings he shouldn't have. He draws to keep in balance. He draws and draws and she sees, but she doesn't understands. One Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Who - Colepaldi RPF - See me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one shot I came up with when I got stuck with my tunnel fic. It’s mostly about his feelings for her and how he deals with it. It is very angsty and also very melancholic and even might be a bit depressive, so I beg you not to read it when you have problems with that. There is no dialogue, just thoughts. Feelings and how they can nag at one. Remember this is a fictional story.

Sometimes he wonders.

When he sits on set, too exhausted to use the time for learning lines or to go for a wander, he pulls out a pen and starts sketching into his notebook.

Mostly there he wonders.

Wonders about past times, little moments and big happenings. While he draws the lines out of memory he finds his hands doing the job on its own, while his mind is busy wondering. How often one must have stared, must have studied to accomplish this. Drawing without looking up.

It aches then, when the pen hits the paper and develops a life of its own, and he can’t stop. He had tried when it happened the first few times, but he quickly had realized that it didn’t matter what he did, his hands always found back to the pen and the paper.

Yes, it aches, but it had ached unbearable when he had banned the notebook from his pockets. He had found himself drawing on his coffee mug or the script to ease the pain. Giving in was everything what he could do, so he did. While he wonders about life choices and about choices life did for one.

He scribbles till they call his name, then he closes the book and places it neatly aside, knowing about its painful content. He walks on set, to the TARDIS console, one hand on the lever as if he never had done anything else in his life. Flying this thing. His eyes somewhere between core and eternity. Looking and yet not looking.

 

She watches him, waiting in this position. He can feel it without looking at her. She watches him long, before she asks him if everything is alright.

 _Of course_ , he says way too quickly. What ever could be wrong? It’s his dream job. The perfect thing to do. Pulling levers all day, running down corridors and saving the world here and there a bit. With her at his side. What else is there to achieve?

She watches him for month, standing by the lever, and he accepts her subtle observations without a word. Never tells her to stop. Never unburdens himself that her stare burns a hole into him.

Instead he wonders, because it is the only thing he can do. Moves his thoughts from the left to the right in his head. Rolls them up and down. Again and again.

When they call _“action”_ he smiles for them, grumbles or runs for them. Whatever they want, he does it with pure perfection.

Later he returns to his seat and his hand longs for the pen again. He draws and draws and spills himself out into the white blank pages knowing about her stare. Knowing she is standing somewhere in the room, burning a hole into him.

He knows he should say something. It would ease the pain, would take the burden away. There are moments he opens his mouth to tell her. Every time it goes shut again in silence. He can’t say it, can’t tell her. Can’t tell her, that he can’t bare it when she talks on the phone with affections and smiles. That it hurts and that he doesn’t know why this has happened to him. There was a plan and the plan had failed and he still doesn't understands why.

No, he can’t say a word to her. It would make everything different.

Drawing. The only thing that keeps him sane. _Hopefully_ , he thinks. Counting the already filled sketchbooks at home make him doubt that. Too many. He knows he has to bring them away one day, burry them in his backyard maybe. Ridiculous idea, but he knows he won’t be able to throw them away.

She wonders too. Everytime she is on the phone he grabs his sketchbook and leaves. Goes for a wander, as he says. Everytime she is on the phone. She doesn’t believe in coincidences. She wonders and asks him if everything is alright. Yes. The answer is always the same. She stops asking because she feels ridiculous. It doesn’t stop her from wondering.

They share moments together, they enjoy the time they have with each other. They laugh a lot. He draws a lot. He learns to handle it. Somehow. The ache is still there. All the time. He stays sane, at least that is what he believes. He is a good actor. He must be, because she stops asking if everything is alright.

Too many books. He can’t take them home. How should he explain this? What is this? A blackout? Of heart. Of soul. Of everything he is. Yes, a blackout. It must be one.

A dozen notebooks. Really only a blackout?

He tries to remember when he had stepped off of the path of sanity. What had happened that he had ended up like this? Wondering. There is no answer to this question. It wasn’t a moment like a blitz but a moment like dripping water into the earth feeding a seed. A feeling sneaking slowly into him, nesting in his heart and he hadn’t realized till his hands couldn’t stay still anymore. Searching. For a pen.

He sees her everyday and enjoys her company and they have fun together and he remembers that in the beginning it was just nice. Then he had felt the warmth when he was around her and he felt he not only could be around her, he wanted to be there and needed to be. And then one day he woke up, realizing that his heart had utterly betrayed him in its decision to give her a room inside it. Not only a room, more a key and the allowance to strode into it whenever she wants. So he wakes up in the morning and all the interior of his heart - how he knows it - has been moved and so he tends to fall over it. He feels like a blind man in a maze.

It’s confusing. And new. And exciting and also very dangerous.

Sometimes she comes over to sit aside from him. She is worried. His eyes tell her things his mouth doesn’t. The sketchbook closes when she does it and vanishes into his pockets and then he pulls out another one, filled with scribbles of Daleks and Cybermen. Of people from set. Sometimes he lets her browse through it. She loves his drawings, she thinks he is gifted and she tells him. She never asks him why there is no picture of her. Never, not one. There is disappointment in her heart about it. She not want’s to sound egomaniac, so she never asks him why. When she walks away he switches notebooks again and she does as if she hasn’t noticed. She wonders but never understands.

They wonder. Here and there. Never together. They are like two people standing by the corner of a street waiting for things never to come, not seeing the other.

 _It’s like a damn tragedy_ , he thinks sometimes, watching her, when she is on her phone. Smiles at her, and off he is.

For a wander.

Wondering.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like what you read? How about a comment or a kudo?


End file.
